


Avant

by Squintern



Series: Radius [2]
Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: M/M, Pre-Canon, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-26
Updated: 2015-10-26
Packaged: 2018-04-28 05:09:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 5,830
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5079067
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Squintern/pseuds/Squintern
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The events - both significant and inane - leading up to Santorini.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue: Seattle

He never actually grew up in London. It’s a common misconception everyone seems to make and he hasn’t corrected them. It’s cleaner just to let them think that. This being the case, no one seems to realize that he can’t stand the rain. And in Seattle, that appears to be the default setting.

This Cobb fellow is late. And it is raining. Eames is chilled, wet, and out of cigarettes and it’s fucking raining. He could be in Monte Carlo right now. But no. The lure of showing off his own tricks in this new business was simply too much for his ego. It’s raining and instead of being warm and dry and increasing his already sizable fortune, he is standing under a depressingly drab awning waiting for a man who claims to have an exciting new venture where forging, as Eames has taken to calling it, could come in handy. He wonders how this Cobb person even knew about him and furthermore how to get in contact with him. He abandons the train of thought though when a very large amount of very cold water streams down on him where the awning has finally given out.

“You look like you could use a ride,” a voice calls to him as he curses. He turns.

A slender man no older than himself is approaching at a brisk pace. His shoes are shiny but seem to protect him from the rain just fine and he has a simple charcoal trench coat on. His trousers are miraculously unharmed by the ridiculous amount of water the sky is producing. He provides Eames shelter under his black umbrella, stepping into his radius quite suddenly, as he offers his right hand. Eames notices the diamond and platinum cufflinks that follow that hand and he’s overwhelmingly relieved that this man is obviously a criminal as well. He’d seen those on display in an exhibit in Paris several months back. It’s nice to see them being put to good use, now.

“I’m Arthur,” the man – boy, really, how old is this kid? – says as Eames grasps his hand, “Cobb sent me. He’s been unexpectedly detained. He’ll meet us at our destination.” Eames can only nod dumbly.

Arthur, which is undoubtedly as fake a name as Eames is for him, is beautiful. He’s not generally in the business if calling other men beautiful, but there’s no other word for it. He’s slim and tall and put together so sharply it’s almost difficult to look at him. Almost. He seems completely untouchable. And Eames is struck suddenly with such an intense want for this man that he’s blindsided. Arthur, for his part, is merely waiting patiently with a schooled bland look on his face for Eames to give him his hand back.

“Right, sorry,” he says quickly, releasing him. “I’m Eames.”

“I know,” Arthur says simply. He jerks his head a bit and starts off in the direction he indicated, expecting Eames to follow. He does.


	2. Prague

“She doesn’t look real,” Arthur tells him shortly. In the past two years since their first introduction to forging in Seattle, the Cobbs and, by default, Arthur have hired him for three jobs. Eames has gotten miles better at dreaming up ways to change his appearance in the dreamscape just as Dom Cobb has gotten miles better at pulling secrets from vaults and Mal Cobb has gotten miles better at imagining skyscrapers that disappear into the clouds and are made entirely of glass. And Arthur. Well, he’s just gotten miles better. His suits are better tailored every time Eames sees him. His hair is better tamed. His shoes are shinier. And his competency on the job has earned him a title, a position as unique and sought after as forging. Eames still wants him. Even when he’s looking at him like this, stern and blunt and perhaps even a bit angry.

“She’s a knock-out and you know it,” Eames shoots back. “She doesn’t have to look real, this is a dream. She’s supposed to be everything the mark wants, it’s not my fault he wants the impossible.” It’s his first time forging a woman and while he doesn’t mind the challenge (and he definitely doesn’t mind the way those dresses he dreams up fall on her body) he’s been under for the past two hours perfecting her with Arthur or the Cobbs coming and going to check his progress. He’s exhausted and irritable and in desperate need of a fag.

“He’s not supposed to know it’s a dream,” Arthur snaps. “At least take a bit off her chest and give her a more realistic waist. It hurts me just to look at her.” Eames barely refrains from grinding his teeth.

“I’ll keep your suggestions in mind, _darling_ ,” he says viciously. He stands and grabs his jacket, heading for the door, already palming his lighter. He purposefully breezes through Arthur’s radius just to see him flinch back, always so careful of his personal space.

“Don’t call me darling!” Arthur shouts at his back.


	3. Kinshasa

Eames knows for a fact that he is the only forger Arthur will work with. Not necessarily the Cobbs. Mal Cobb isn’t as picky and Dom Cobb prefers to keep the team as small as possible and therefore doesn’t much like people besides Arthur and his wife. That’s why they have Arthur. To make sure the other people on the team are just as competent as Arthur himself. Which is also why it is completely mystifying when he hears that Dom Cobb has hired that tosser, Jamison, to work with him. Eames is, frankly, insulted. And more than a little viciously pleased when he gets a call from Arthur two days before the job is set to go down (not that he was keeping tabs on their progress).

“Let me guess,” he says, relishing this call more that is probably strictly necessary, “you need a last minute forger.”

“We need a forger in general,” Arthur bites out. “Jamison is an insufferable, incompetent prick and I told Dom I knew exactly where you were and that you were, in fact, free but he still went and hired the man.”

“What made you think I was free?” Eames asks. Never mind that he is and of course Arthur knows that, it’s his job to know everything.

“You’re staying in a motel directly across from our warehouse. You can probably see me from your window,” Arthur deadpans. Eames leans back in his chair and parts the grimy curtains slightly. Sure enough, a lone figure is standing in the roof of the building across the way. He thinks he can almost see Arthur’s scowl, but it’s probably just his imagination. Arthur is too far away. “You just opened your curtains to look.”

“As usual, darling, you’re completely terrifying me,” Eames tells him mildly, clamping the phone between his ear and his shoulder so he can continue eating.

“Eames, I swear to God, if you call me darling right now, I will shoot you where you sit. From this rooftop. Are you in or not?”

“I’m in, I’m in,” he assures Arthur, “Christ.” He hears Arthur’s sigh of relief on the other end.

“Thank fuck. I’m going to tell Jamison he is in no uncertain terms fired. And then I’m going to explain to Dom in the simplest words I can find that I flat out refuse to work with any other forger again,” Arthur mutters. He hangs up with those parting words and Eames peeks out to watch him march inside. Eames can’t find it in himself to mind that Arthur assumed he would follow them to Kinshasa, not with his last sentence still ringing in his ears. This will work out well, he thinks, because he hates working with any team that doesn’t include Arthur.


	4. Amsterdam

The Cobbs have retreated to their hotel room already, another early night for Mal’s benefit. Eames still has a lot of work to do and he knows Arthur will be up for another several hours. Dom had come bursting in today with an impossible idea on the tip of his tongue: a dream within a dream. It was intriguing enough a thought that Eames couldn’t dismiss it as nonsense, not when he’d seen Arthur fight off an entire army of projections just three weeks ago in Minsk with only a spoon. The impossible was becoming possible before his eyes with this team and he wanted to be a part of it. Besides, the glint in Arthur’s eye when Dom had said that was enough to keep Eames there. If Arthur believes it is possible, it is possible. So he’s up right now, figuring out how they might go about it. Eames knows he’s on to something and perhaps he’s staying up on the off chance that Arthur will ask him to go under and test a theory with him.

It surprises him that even after all this time, he still wants Arthur badly. It’s a burning, ever-present sort of want. He’s become accustomed to it, learned to live with it, but he’s been suspecting more and more that there may be something hiding beneath the surface of his lust, something that should scare him but somehow doesn’t. Arthur seems to be warming up to him, too. About time. It’s been almost five years since they first met and Eames has become an almost regular addition to their team of three. Sometimes it seems like Arthur calls him with a job that could have been easily completed without him. He still goes.

He wakes up from another five minute session on the PASIV and immediately feels the pounding headache start up behind his eyes. The drugs don’t have a chance to wear off with the amount of time he spends under and they’ve been steadily building toward a migraine all day. But Arthur demands perfection on all jobs he works and Eames will be damned if he lets him down. Competent forgers are popping up almost daily and Eames may actually have to start distinguishing himself in some way if he wants to keep his head above water. It does help a little that word around the dream share community is that Arthur only hires the very best.

Eames grabs his cigarettes and lighter, checks the small trinket he calls a totem and steps outside. It’s chillier than he expected but somehow that seems to push the dream hangover back a bit. His lighter flares and he breathes a sigh of relief after a long drag. He hears the door open behind him and Arthur steps carefully into his radius. He’s not wearing his jacket and the breeze goes right through his dress shirt and waist coat. Still, he doesn’t even flinch. Perfectly poised as always.

“Those things’ll kill you, you know,” he says, sliding his hands into the pockets of his trousers and sidling up alongside him. Eames smiles around the cigarette and holds the pack out to Arthur. There are only two crushed ones left. He’s been steadily working through them all day.

“Care to join me, darling?” he asks cheekily. Arthur rolls his eyes. Eames is about to replace the pack at his elbow when Arthur surprises him. He takes the least mangled fag and helps himself to Eames’ lighter. He closes his eyes on the first drag and Eames has never seen anything more momentarily perfect.

“I got one of those totem things you mentioned,” he says conversationally as he releases the smoke. “It’s a good idea. I’ve suggested it to Mal and Dom.” Eames grins a bit.

“Why, Arthur, darling, did you just compliment me?” he asks teasingly. Arthur fixes him with a thoroughly unimpressed look. He doesn’t say anything, just goes back to smoking, still standing ramrod straight, just barely within Eames’ radius. It’s the closest Arthur has stood to him since that day in Seattle when they had shared an umbrella for half a block.

“What’s yours?” Eames asks, mimicking Arthur casual tone. Arthur laughs and stamps out half the cigarette on the railing.

“Good try, Mr. Eames,” he says. He drops the half spent cigarette back into the pack at Eames’ elbow. He turns and moves back inside. Just before the door closes Eames hears him say, “You should go back to your hotel and get some real sleep. You can work more tomorrow.”

He looks down at the half-smoked fag in his pack, almost dumps it out and tosses it over the edge of the railing. But he stops. His own has just flickered out and he’s not done smoking yet. The tip is still warm and the end is still slightly damp where Arthur’s mouth had been curled around it. He raises it to his own lips and lights up. Arthur probably knew he would finish the cigarette. Somehow, Eames always meets every expectation Arthur has of him. Meanwhile, Arthur has never met Eames’.


	5. Dubai

It’s odd working a job without the Cobbs, but they have to be home right now, what with Baby Girl ready to come out any day now. Arthur is with them. Or, he’s supposed to be. Right now, though, he seems to be fuming in the middle of dingy old factory the team has been using. He looks positively regal, standing there in his pressed suit, furious, amid piles of debris and tepid puddles. He rounds on Eames as he walks in.

“And you,” he says viciously, “you and I are going to have very strong words later about the people you choose to associate with. Now, catch me up. And if you leave _anything_ out, I will send you all back to your home countries in an envelope.” He straightens his jacket and turns to their extractor.

This isn’t Eames’ proudest moment. The team he’s working with is far from competent. But needs must. He owes some people a lot of money and he would rather not run down his own coffers when there’s extractors knocking down his door to work with the best forger in the business. The job was supposed to be easy, but Eames hadn’t counted on the utter idiocy of the architect and the impossible lack of human regard their chemist seems to show. He had caved last week and called Yusuf when a bad mix of Somnacin almost poisoned everyone. He doesn’t know how Arthur got here, though.

Arthur keeps them up all night sorting out everything that’s wrong with their plans. He throws a glare in Eames’ direction every few minutes as if to say _I can’t believe you got yourself tangled up in this mess, you complete moron_. Still, it’s better than the glare he’s levelling on everyone else. He fixes them, of course. He rewrites every plan, checks Yusuf’s compounds twice, makes Eames show him his forge over and over again. With Arthur on the job, it’s almost possible they’ll make it through. But then, he is the best.

Around five he sends them all to their rooms. He gives them two hours to sleep, then they’re expected back for a test run promptly at seven. Eames knows Arthur won’t be leaving tonight. There’s an urgency about him and it’s clear that he wants to get back to Mal. Eames moves slowly to the edge of Arthur’s radius and perches against his desk. Arthur barely acknowledges him, focused on the dossier spread over his lap. His eyes are rimmed with the red of too little sleep and up close Eames can tell he’s come straight from the airport. His hair is mussed ever so slightly in the back, as if it was tangled and hastily combed back into place before arrival. There’s a spot of something on the shoulder of his jacket and his trousers are slightly wrinkled from being seated for a long period of time. He’s unspeakably lovely like this, just on the verge of being ruffled, but still horribly untouchable. He looks up when he reaches the end of the page.

“You’re a fucking idiot,” he says simply. He leans back in his chair, running his finger through his hair. Eames realizes a jolt that Arthur is actually almost relaxing in his presence. Just for a moment.

“In my defense, I didn’t know they would be quite so stupid,” Eames tries. Arthur gives him a look that says he can see straight through Eames’ bullshit.

“Dom told me you were stuck in this mess and for some reason I couldn’t just leave you to the wolves when this all inevitably went belly-up,” he says. He looks as surprised by the admittance as Eames is.

“Well,” he murmurs, “much appreciated, darling.” Arthur sighs and tosses the dossier on the desk.

His phone rings and he dives for it, a flurry of movement where there had just been stillness. He picks up and whatever the person on the other end says, it makes him smile like Eames has never seen. Wide, unabashed, genuine. Arthur has dimples. Eames is distantly aware of Arthur speaking.

“Congratulations,” he’s saying warmly, then, wistfully, “God I wish I was there. I’m sorry. It was stupid to come.” He pauses and Dom, Eames can guess by Arthur’s half of the conversation that Mal has just popped, says something that causes Arthur’s eyes to slide in his direction. He looks away quickly when he sees Eames already watching him.

“Sure, sure. Look, what’s her name? Is she beautiful?” he asks eagerly. The smile is back full-force as he listens. “Yeah go ahead. I’ll bring her back something from Dubai.” He pauses again to listen. Then scowls.

“Dom, what the hell kind of godfather brings his infant goddaughter a gun? What’s wrong with you?” he says, but there’s still a vein of happiness beneath his put-out tone. He hangs up on whatever Dom was about to say. Moments later, his phone chimes with a text. Arthur’s eyes melt as he looks at it. He moves closer to Eames and turns the phone to him. The picture is grainy, but the round face of a newborn is apparent and Eames can detect the slope of Mal’s nose and Dom’s corn silk hair. He smiles.

“What’s her name, then?” he asks, leaning in closer to get a better look.

  
“Phillipa,” Arthur replies almost dreamily. Eames smiles.

“I’ll send them a congratulations in the mail, shall I?” he says, leaning back as Arthur moves away again.

“Mal will like that” he says, “she’s always liked you.” He goes back to the folders strewn over his desk, but there’s a better set to his shoulders now. A small fissure of contentment eases the tight frown of his mouth. Eames pushes away from the desk, thinking about the antique rattle he’d swiped from a vendor a month ago in Hong Kong. It’s exactly the type of thing Mal would love. He knows he subconsciously took it to gift to Baby Girl – Phillipa, he reminds himself –anyway.


	6. Trenton

Eames understands being married to the job, but brining a newborn along really is just asking for trouble in his opinion. Arthur shares this sentiment if the looks he keeps throwing the Cobbs are any indication. Despite trying valiantly to keep a stern face, though, he can’t help but melt a little whenever he catches sight of Phillipa. It’s endearing and Eames thinks for the first time that he might be a little bit in love with Arthur. It’s not nearly as surprising or frightening as it probably should be.

To be fair, Phillipa is shockingly well behaved. She’s the quietest baby Eames has ever seen and appears to be perfectly content to just sit in her makeshift play pen and stack the bits of brick and concrete she finds around her. Arthur had very carefully inspected the area for glass or other swallowable, dangerous bits of debris while the Cobbs had looked on with fond exasperation. She’s looking around right now with big round eyes, watching her parents and Arthur sleep peacefully hooked up to the PASIV as they run through a maze Mal built last night. Eames doesn’t have a problem being on baby watch for five minutes. He needed a break anyway.

He goes over to where she’s caged in and sits down on the floor to get level with her. She turns her big brown eyes toward him and appraises him with a long, frighteningly Arthurian expression. Then, her face breaks into an enormous smile and she babbles something very quickly, shuffling herself over to get closer to him. He smiles helplessly and catches her hand as she waves it out to him. She grabs his finger tightly and laughs. Eames isn’t sure if she’ll understand yet, but he takes his finger back and reaches into his pocket for an old poker chip, worn completely smooth with age and his constant nervous tick of running his fingers over it. She stops babbling to watch raptly. He makes sure she sees it before pretending to transfer it to his other hand to make it seem like it disappeared. She claps wildly.

  
“She’s incredibly smart for her age,” Arthur says proudly, closer than he expected. Eames definitely doesn’t jump. He looks over his shoulder. Dom and Mal are still under. Eames shoots a questioning look at Arthur as he bends to catch Phillipa in his arms when she waves her own at him frantically. Arthur sees the look and slants him a private smirk. “Let’s just say they weren’t running the maze. And Dom was looking in the very wrong place for secrets.” Eames laughs. Phillipa joins in though she can’t understand a word they’re saying.

Arthur carries Phillipa back over to his desk, one arm cradled beneath her as he picks up a pen to make a few notes. He doesn’t seem to mind that Phillipa is drooling on the shoulder of his shirt, he just smiles slightly and writes something else down. Phillipa grabs for his pen. He taps her on the nose with it gently, quietly reprimanding her in French. He looks happier than Eames has ever known him to be.

He picks himself up off the floor and makes his way over to Arthur’s workspace. He steps into Arthur’s radius and for once it seems like Arthur doesn’t notice he’s there. He occupied with cooing quietly to Phillipa. He turns with a folder in hand only to stop abruptly as he comes face to face with Eames. They’re close enough that Eames can feel the warm rush of breath he lets out and the arm his has crooked around Phillipa brushes the lapel of Eames’ jacket. Eames has the sudden, wild inclination to kiss him. But then Arthur is passing him the folder and shifting Phillipa into both his arms as if to shield himself and Mal and Dom are waking in the chairs behind them.

“I know it’s a bit later in the game than usual, but that’s the complete dossier for your forge,” Arthur is saying, his voice just this side of too loud for how close they’re standing. He steps around Eames as hastens out of his radius to Mal’s side, depositing Phillipa in her arms just in time for the baby to realize she’s hungry. Eames stares down at the folder in his hands and calms his pulse.


	7. Istanbul

Arthur never appears to take a break. This is the fifth job he’s worked in as many months. Even the Cobbs are sitting this one out. Eames isn’t technically on the same job as Arthur, but their teams have set up in the same warehouse out of convenience. Eames’ extractor broke some vital part of their PASIV and while their architect knows how to fix it, they have to use Arthur’s for trial runs until then. Neither of the teams get in each other’s way, but Eames has to wonder if they notice the way he and Arthur seem to skirt each other’s radius whenever they pass.

Arthur is exhausted. He’s jumpy and fidgety and much, much too tense. He’s sucking down coffee like it’s water and Eames suspects he sleeps on one of the recliners they use for dreaming. He’s there when Eames leaves last every night, and there when Eames arrives first every morning. For the amount of work Eames is putting into his job, Arthur seems to be doubling it for his own. It’s definitely not healthy.

He’s at his desk now. Eames’ watch says it’s past two in the morning. He had been under putting the finishing touches on one of the three characters he has to forge for this dream. Once it became public knowledge that the Cobbs and Arthur had perfected two-level dreams, everyone jumped on the bandwagon.  This team, thankfully, has enough experience to handle two levels and the job itself shouldn’t be a problem. He has no idea what the other team is working on. Eames stands and coils his IV back into the PASIV, clicking it shut firmly enough to catch Arthur’s attention. He looks up and around blearily. Eames grabs his cigarettes and lighter and goes over to him.

“Come on,” he says, grasping Arthur’s elbow firmly and pulling him up, “you need to stop.” Arthur lets himself be dragged outside. Eames lights up two cigarettes and passes one to Arthur. Arthur takes it and slumps back against the dirty wall of the warehouse with zero regard for his white shirt.

Arthur takes several deep drags before sighing out and tilting his head back to rest on the brick. “Thanks,” he breathes, his eyes closed.

“Don’t mention it, darling,” Eames tells him. Arthur tilts a tired smile to him.

“Pippa has a raging fever and Mal is pregnant again. Dom’s at his wits end. Mal sent me here because she said I was hovering and she threatened to castrate me and not name me godfather for their other children if I didn’t get out of her house,” he says quietly. He takes another deep drag and Eames stifles a chuckle. Arthur gives him another smile.

“Go ahead, laugh,” he says, “I was being completely unhelpful.” Eames does laugh at that.

“Darling, I don’t think it’s possible for you to be unhelpful,” he says, shaking his head. Arthur barks out a short chuckle if his own.

“You’d be surprised, Mr. Eames.”

They continue on in silence. Somehow, since that first shared smoke in Amsterdam, they’ve gone from Arthur slipping out for a short puff or two, to really, truly sharing a smoke, Arthur staying out for an entire, sometimes two, cigarette that he hasn’t stopped bumming off Eames. Dom had looked on disapprovingly in Trenton when Arthur held Pippa while still smelling of smoke, but that didn’t seem to deter Arthur. Arthur also has gotten more comfortable with Eames invading his space. Eames is tactile by nature and as Arthur slowly let him seep into his radius, Eames has taken the inch Arthur gave him and ran with it. A brush of shoulders as they come and go, one holding the door for the other. A slap on the back when Arthur does something particularly ingenious. Arthur still reprimands him occasionally for calling him “darling” and his dripping condescension still extends to Eames, but since he showed Eames a picture of newborn Pippa, Eames thinks they constitute as friends. It’s progress.

They finish their cigarettes simultaneously and without a word Eames shakes two more into his palm. Arthur takes one and waits for Eames to light his before leaning in close to light his own off the tip of Eames’. This close, Eames can feel Arthur’s breath on his fingers and see the dark flush of his eyelashes across his cheekbones. There’s a tiny scar along his hairline from a bad kick back in his military days. Arthur had told him under the guise of a cautionary tale, but when it’s a story whispered into the snowflakes in Moscow with smoke curling around them as they huddle close for warmth, it’s hard to see it as just a warning. Arthur leans away pushes his sleeves up his forearms, leaning back against the wall again. There are speckled scars on his wrist so very like the ones Eames has that mark his ever growing addiction to the dreams. That’s what it is with all of them. Addiction. But Eames, for once, finds himself scared of what Arthur may do to him when he looks at the delicate skin of his wrist and realizes that becoming anyone he could possibly imagine is not the only addiction he’s developed.


	8. Trujillo

This time it’s just Dom and Arthur. Mal stayed home with Pippa and the new baby, James. The factory seems quieter without her and Dom is more subdued. Even Arthur occasionally looks around as if ready to share an observation with Mal, but remembers she’s not there. There’s no need for a forgery on this job, but Eames is a semi-regular member of the team by now and can perform a decent extraction when necessary so Arthur calls him in without question. Dom’s dreamscapes are like Mal’s, impressive and stunning, but they lack the flair of Mal’s. It’s difficult to pinpoint what exactly is different, really, but they’re just not the same. There’s something soft and wavery to Mal’s dreamscapes that inexplicably makes them more realistic even though Dom’s precise architecture and sharp edges are more like the waking world.

The job had started out quieter than normal and Eames had dared to hope that it would be an easy in-and-out job. A week tops. He was due for a vacation and he had his sights set on Rio. For one crazy moment when he’d laid eyes on Arthur for the first time in over six months, he almost considered asking him along. He dismissed the thought, knowing Arthur would say no. He’s allergic to vacations. Besides, he had a new godson to get back to.

He should have known the peace wouldn’t hold. It never did in their line of work. Two days before the extraction is set to go down, the windows of the abandoned factory blow inward and Arthur barely has time to pull them both behind a pile of fallen rebar. He has his gun out before Eames can blink and is peeking around the debris. Cobb is out tailing their mark, making sure their opening is still good for the extraction. It’s just to two of them in the factory and Eames has never been gladder that Mal is back in the States with the children. He’s grown attached to the pictures Mal and, on the rare occasion, Arthur send him.

“Friends of yours?” Eames asks as the guns start up. Arthur grits his teeth.

“Unfortunately,” he says dryly and Eames can’t help coughing out a laugh.

“You have terrible taste in friends, darling,” he says. Arthur smirks at him.

“No wonder I’m still friends with you,” he retorts. He takes another look around the pile of concrete. “I’ll see you in an hour?” Eames flicks the safety off his own gun and smiles at him, all teeth.

“I could use a cuppa when this is through,” he agrees. Arthur smiles back and they duck out from behind the rebar, guns blazing.

Arthur meets him and hour and ten minutes later at a hole-in-the-wall coffee shop with the best sage tea Eames has ever tasted. He falls into the seat across from him and rakes a hand through his hair. Eames smiles, forcing himself to relax as if those extra ten minutes hadn’t been slowly killing him.

“Lovely to see you, darling,” he says. Arthur grins.

“Thanks for the coffee.”


	9. Montreal

It’s been over a year since Eames has been called by the Cobbs or by Arthur. He finds he misses Mal and Dom, too, not just Arthur. Mal more than Dom. Dom’s too squinty for his taste. So when he gets called from his relaxing month in Tahiti to head for Montreal, he goes without question. He’s surprised when it’s only Arthur who meets him at the warehouse and a team he’s not familiar with files in behind him. Arthur assures him they’re competent and the job will go off without a hitch. Eames can’t help but notice, though, that there’s a harsh tenseness to him that he hasn’t seen before. Even when he’s been working himself to death, he hasn’t been this tight around the eyes or had this deep a score between his brows. Eames opens his mouth to ask, but Arthur moves out of his radius suddenly, almost jerking away from him, and goes to his whiteboard. He doesn’t look at Eames throughout his entire briefing.

By the fifth day, even the new team can tell Arthur’s on edge. He snaps at them more often than they deserve and his foot has been beating out a staccato rhythm on the floor all morning. Eames is almost certain one of them is going to be shot before the week is out if someone doesn’t do something. He elects himself, of course. He’s known Arthur for years now and they’ve been friends for some time. He sidles over, the picture of casualness, and inches into Arthur’s radius carefully. Arthur turns the moment he comes close and fixes him with an icy glare.

“Do you need something, Mr. Eames?” he asks darkly. Eames falters.

“Darling,” he tries slowly. Without putting down the folder he’s holding, Arthur stands and slams his fist into Eames’ jaw.

“ _Don’t call me darling,_ ” he growls. He sits back down heavily in his chair and turns back to the folder. Eames stands there, holding his screaming jaw and staring wide-eyed at Arthur’s back. The entire warehouse is silent. Slowly, like backing away from a feral animal, Eames moves out of Arthur’s radius and retreats to his desk. The team stands together and walks out. Eames can guess that the job is off. From the slump of Arthur’s shoulders, he knows it, too.

After a stop at his hotel for his bags, Eames goes back to the warehouse. He knows Arthur probably cleaned it out well, but he likes to check for his own peace of mind. The others have cleared out already, but he’s surprised to see Arthur sitting in exactly the place he left him earlier. Now though, his head his cradled in his hands and his shoulders are not so much tense as slumped in defeat. He looks defeated. Eames heart breaks a bit at seeing it.

“Arthur,” he whispers, approaching warily. Arthur looks up. The expression on his face has Eames crossing the floor quickly and falling to his knees at Arthur’s side. He cups a hand to the back of Arthur’s neck, pulling his forehead to meet his own. Arthur is shaking.

“Darling, what is it?” Eames asks brokenly. He says nothing for a while, only continues to shake in Eames’ hands. Finally he shifts enough to look Eames in the eye.

“Mal’s dead,” he whispers hoarsely.


End file.
